


It Takes a (Victor's) Village

by sakurasencha



Series: Bread and Roses [6]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Crack, District 4, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Odesta, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 21:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11193732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakurasencha/pseuds/sakurasencha
Summary: When Annie and Finnick fight, the whole Victor's Village knows about it. Crackfic.





	It Takes a (Victor's) Village

**Author's Note:**

> I once saw a prop for the movies that contained a list of all the victors from District Four, and I might have gotten a bit carried away.

Ron Stafford, Forty-second Victor of The Hunger Games, was perfecting his lemon tilapia recipe when a flash of perfectly angled light hit his eyes.

_Dot._

He froze mid-grate, put down his zester, rubbed the stars out of his eyes, and squinted towards the french windows that opened onto his patio. Librae, his charming next door neighbor (victor of the Sixty-third Hunger Games whose piece de resistance was an elaborate trap involving multiple tripwires, flying hatchets, and the heads of her enemies), was making good use of the bright, District Four sunlight and a compact mirror.

_Dash-dash._

He sighed and ran a hand over his bare pate. “Librae’s sending a message.”

Muscilda’s lithe form was perched on a stool at the counter. “Oh?” She raised one eyebrow and took a slow slurp of her iced mocha. “What’s the psychopath trying to tell us?”

“Not sure yet. The first letter is ‘T.’ The next one ‘I.”

“And?”

Ron held up a hand. “Just wait for it, ‘Cilda.” They stared pensively out the window.

_Dash-dash-dash-dash-dash._

The flashing abruptly stopped. Muscilda and Ron watched Librae leave her window, foreheads creased as they processed the message. Then they turned towards each other, mouths opening in tandem.

“Damn.”

 

* * *

 

Over time, each District of Panem, by virtue of its complete isolation, developed its own distinct culture and habits. Some ran bone deep, such as the varied marriage customs. Some were quirky, like District Seven’s infamous oil braised mutton and legume stew. Still others were born out of sheer necessity – such as the case for the wayfaring District Four’s almost maniacal reliance on long distance communication – namely morse code.

Mags, sitting alone on her porch swing as she salivated over a steamy romance novel, blinked her eyes at a pesky beam of light fluttering over her face. Personally, she found her District’s reluctance to let go of antiquated communication methods silly. But on occasions such a these she would own that it had its uses. “What is it now, Ron?” she muttered.

She squinted at the flashing light.

 _Dot._ “T”

 _Dash-dash._ “I”

 _Dash-dash-dash-dash-dash._ “P”

Mags frowned. “T – I – P.”

_Trouble in Paradise._

She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Again?”

 

* * *

 

They convened in Mags’ kitchen, as was custom.

Muscilda’s head emerged from the refrigerator. Clad in a flimsy shift dress of lily white that contrasted nicely against her deep, brown skin, she popped open a can of fizzing mango juice. “Mags, you’ve got to do something. This is – what? The fourth argument this month?” The term _argument_ , of course, being very loosely applied. Because an argument between victors looked more like a cage match between anyone else.

Ron raised a hand and wiggled every finger. “Fifth. You forgot about the tidal wave over whether or not Finnick should forgo his annual summer haircut.”

“So there you go. Five blowouts this month alone.” Muscilda took another gulp and stared at her can with a look of distaste. “Something’s not right with them, and you’ve got to do something about it.”

“Always running to Mama Mags with your problems.” She gave an aggravated sigh. “I don’t know why I’m the one who has to be responsible for managing the love lives of multiple grown adults. I have enough trouble managing my own!” This was the exact moment the front door flung open, revealing none other than Finnick Odair in all his ravishing, bare-chested glory.

He struck an artful pose in the doorframe. “I am one hundred percent done!”

Mags closed her eyes. “Hello to you too, Finnick.”

“I’m done! There’s no reasoning with her. She’s being completely unreasonable!” Then he reached up and mussed with his precisely disheveled coiffure – which meant things must be really bad.

Mags walked over to Finnick and wrapped a comforting arm around his shoulders, guiding him gently inside. “What’s all the fuss, Finnick? I’m sure you’re blowing it out of proportion.”

“Really, Mags? Am I the type of person to blow things out of proportion? Am I the type of man to be _melodramatic_?” He gave a sharp hip thrust to emphasize his point.

“Put that thing away, Finnick,” Ron said. “You’ll poke someone’s eye out.” He walked over and placed a hand on Finnick’s shoulder. “Now calm down, son. You’re upsetting ‘Cilda.”

“No I’m not!” He slapped Ron’s hand away. “And don’t call me son.”

Muscilda mopped down the front of her currently soaked dress. “I spilled half my drink when you burst in! My dress is _ruined_!”

“You only wear that thing because it stains easily and gives you an excuses to stab people!” Finnick barked.

"I wear it," she said, a thin blade materializing into her palm, "because it's easy to take off!" She brandished it with an expert shoulder-shimmy. "You're not the only one who likes flaunting what mama gave you." She began stabbing in Finnick's general direction.

Finnick darted between her jabs. “Half of it came from the Capitol!”

"Ready to die, cheekbones?”

Ron hefted one of his trunk-like legs and kicked his wife out of stabbing range. “‘Cilda – put the knife away.” He pushed Finnick to the floor with a beefy arm. “Son, I think it’s best that you _calm down_.”

Finnick scrambled to his feet and snatched up a fork – the most trident-like object within reach. “So help me, Stafford, I will drive this fork through your last remaining eye….”

“Everybody….” The room froze at Mags’ firm and ancient voice. “...shut up.” The room fell silent. Weapons clattered to the floor. Every District Four victor would admit that there was something preternatural in the old woman’s soft, gummy alto. Something that made denying her an impossibility, as many a young male barflies would attest the morning after.

Mags cracked her neck both ways, then eased her tired bones onto an upholstered dining chair. “Ron, this leather is divine.” She patted her lap. “Now come on over, Finnick. Come tell Mama Mags what the trouble is.”

For a moment Finnick’s stubborn face was motionless, shining like a gilded statue amdist the magnificent rays of late afternoon sunlight streaming through the spotless windows.

“I bet it’s bedroom problems,” Muscilda whispered.

That’s when he broke.

Finnick subsided onto Mags’ lap with a look of pure anguish. “It’s this….damn….stupid….”

 

* * *

 

“ _Boat!_ ” Annie curled each hand into a tight fist and plunged them both through the drywall. “He wants to buy a _new_ _boat_!”

Two jagged holes, side by side, now lived on Librae’s library wall. “Um…”

“What’s wrong with the boat we have now?” Annie cocked her fist, which two seconds later gave birth to a third hole. “What’s wrong with good old _Neptune’s Thong_?”

Librae could suggest any number of things wrong with the name _Neptune’s Thong_. “ _May_ -be…” But any replies were swallowed by a flurry of further violence, the hollow _crunch crunch_ of drywall as it exploded to an unwarranted demise.

Annie sat panting on the floor, spent. Librae considered her once sturdy and functional wall, now reduced to an impromptu home to an entire family of fist-sized holes, conveniently in the shape of a happy face. _At least it_ _saves me the trouble of looking for another piece of wall art._

Librae, best known around the wharfs of District Four for lobotomizing small marine animals from the age of eight, was also lesser known for wandering graveyards in search of freshly interned corpses. Theories abounded, but no one quite knew what exactly she did to the carcasses that were surreptitiously dug up every Tuesday and Thursday, just as no one would ever make the mistake of calling Librae well adjusted.

But there were times when she felt almost average when confronted with the hurricane of crazy that was Annie Cresta. “Maybe he just wants a new boat, Annie,” she said.

“Tell you what, Librae: one hundred Tesserae says he only wants to buy this new boat to piss me off.”

“Doubtful.”

“Then why would he bring it up? He knew I’d be against it. He knew I wouldn’t want it.”

“He’s not a mind reader. How would he know something like that?”

“Because to me, that boat isn’t just a hunk of floating wood. It’s special. It’s where I _healed_.” The anger evaporated. Annie lifted a hand to her pallid face and nibbled on her fingernails. “It’s where I learned to love the water again. It’s where we fell in love.” Fingers snaked into her titian hair and pulled at the roots. “He once told me that it didn’t matter how abused or broken down our boat was. That we would keep it forever, splinters and all.” Brown eyes quavered and her face pleaded for answers that Librae didn’t have and probably wouldn’t give even if she did. “Doesn’t it mean anything to him anymore?”

Ten minutes of social contact was Librae’s natural limit, and Annie had already been storming around her mansion for a good eleven. But she hadn't emerged from the Sixty-third Hunger Games as Victor, racking up a kill count that had yet to be surpassed, for nothing. She had brazened worse than Annie Cresta’s volatile emotions, and who knew? Maybe Librae could finally convince the apple-haired tart to toss that sea god she called a boyfriend back into the dating pool. Poseidon knew her corpse replicas of Finnick were simply not cutting it.

She popped in two ear plugs, settled into her comfiest chair, and braced herself. “Tell me all about it, Annie. Start at the beginning.”

 

* * *

 

“The beginning?” Finnick rubbed his chin with a look of contemplation. “I guess it all really started when I vowed to become the youngest victor in Panem history. It was an early dream of mine, prompted, I believe, by my elder brother’s shocking homicide conviction. My mother was against the scheme, of course. How could she bear the loss of yet another son? But I’d already been training for a few years, and despite everyone telling me volunteering would be suicide –”

“The beginning of the _argument_ , Finnick.”

“Oh, that.” His face darkened. “It started when I suggested we buy a new boat. _Neptune’s Thong_ is getting a bit worse for the wear, so I brought her a few brochures from the shipbuilder’s guild. I thought she’d be happy I wanted to get something nice for us. But instead she blew her top off and said we didn’t need a new boat.”

“And then what did you say?”

 

* * *

 

“And then Finnick goes on and on about how our boat is falling apart and we have more money than we can ever spend, as if being rich is somehow an excuse for extravagance.”

Librae gave a thumbs up.

“I know, right? So I said it didn’t matter how rich we were, that there are things that go beyond the value of money. But would he listen? No. He said our boat was a piece of junk and that he was buying us a new one, end of story. And after that there was really only one thing left to say to him.”

 

* * *

 

“And then she had the nerve to tell me I was doing all this to spite her! That getting a new boat would just mean more maintenance and work for her to keep up with while I was away at the Capitol.”

Mags frowned. “Why would she bring that up?”

 

* * *

 

“Because he’s a lazy slob, that’s why! I spend half my day just picking up after him! He denied it, of course, said I was making things up.”

 

* * *

 

“And then she slapped me in the face and said, ‘You have three pairs of underwear on the floor right now!’”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”

“That’s not–” Finnick shook his head. “What does that have to do with _anything_?”

Mags’ face was colored a faint shade of eggplant. “Finnick, dear,” she said tightly. “It might be time to get off my lap.” She blew out a breath of relief. “Good. That’s much better. Now, what happened after she pointed out your abysmal housekeeping?”

 

* * *

 

“So then he goes, ‘we can just hire a maid’ - as if anyone would want to be our maid!”

“Actually, I think there are people who would literally commit murder to become Finnick Odair’s maid.” Librae smiled dreamily. “I might be one of them.”

“We went back and forth, back and forth, getting angrier and angrier, until finally I told him I would just move back into my own mansion.”

Librae looked alarmed. “How did he respond?”

“All he said was, ‘maybe you should.’” Annie crumpled into the carpet, sobbing.

 

* * *

 

Finnick’s face was a waterfall. “Then she turned her back on me and walked out, just like that. And that’s when I came here.”

Mags wrapped a bony arm around his trembling shoulders. "Dear Finnie. All this fighting and arguing is wearing you plumb out – you’ve got bags under your eyes, for Poseidon’s sake! Why don’t you mosey on to my bedroom and have a lie down? Let Mama Mags take care of it.”

“You always do,” he sniffed.

“I always do.”

Once Finnick was tucked into the guest bed, mug of cocoa in hand and nose pressed into the latest copy of _Knots Monthly_ , the room erupted.

“Annie _cannot_ move back into her mansion!”

“‘Cilda’s right. I mean, where would we put all of our stuff?”

“Stuff?” Mags asked. “What stuff?”

“My stuff! Her stuff!”

“Our _stuff_!” Muscilda cried.

“All of our stuff, Mags,” Ron explained. “All the stuff we keep in Annie’s mansion.”

Mags massaged her temples. “You mean to tell me you keep your belongings in Annie’s mansion?”

“Loads of them.”

“What’s wrong with the mansions all of you were so generously provided?”

“Understand, Mags – our mansions are for our regular stuff. Annie’s mansion is for our storage stuff. And don’t go glaring at us, Mags – as if we don't know about the little love nest you've set up in Annie's master bedroom."

Mags cleared her throat. “I confirm nor deny nothing…”

“The bottom line is this: Annie can’t move back into her mansion,” Ron said. “We have to fix this.”

“Definitely," Muscilda agreed. "For the storage.”

“And for Annie and Finnick,” said Mags. “Who are our _friends_.”

“Yeah. Maybe that.” Ron grinned. “Actually, I can’t lie. I have no concern over their love life. But storing my vintage daggers in a temperature controlled facility? That I do care about.”

"Some of those pieces go back to the first Hunger Games, Mags."

Mags waved a hand. “Whatever our motives, I agree we should at least start with some damage control. Both those kids have a tendency to tailspin at the littlest wobble, and we should catch them before they become a heap of rubble." Mags grabbed her coat and keys from the foyer. “I’m going over to Librae's. Annie's been left to that deranged woman's tender mercies for much too long. Who knows what ideas she’s putting into the poor girl’s head? Ron, you go talk to Finnick.”

Ron picked at his sleeve. “Why? The kid never listens to me.”

Mags pointed at his chest. “Then make him listen. That love nest took me three months to perfect and I’m not making another one.”

 

* * *

 

Although each mansion in the Victor’s Village was architecturally identical, owners were allowed some concessions in personalizing the landscape and decor. Mags, for example, relished the time planting her yearly annuals in the flower beds flanking the walk up to her front door. Annie, coaxed by Mags in her early years as a victor, found solace from her wind-tossed memories in sustaining a kitchen garden overflowing with fragrant basil and lemongrass. Muscilda and Ron built a first class home theater in their basement where no one was allowed to go under penalty of a slow death, while Finnick installed hot tubs in every room.

Different strokes for different folks. But they all agreed that Librae’s tastes veered in a decidedly disturbing direction.

“I still can’t figure out where she got all these gargoyles,” Mags wondered as she crunched her way over the brown, brittle lawn. Two stone dragons leered at her as she banged once on the lion mouth knocker before charging inside. “Where is she?” she demanded. “How much damage have you done?”

Librae, standing placidly in the foyer, raised one of her razor-like shoulders, a floraled teacup and saucer balanced in one hand. “She wouldn’t stop crying, so I killed her.” She took a delicate sip.

“Murder and creepy tea parties. A typical Thursday afternoon, then?”

Librae patted her hair that sat coiled onto the top of her head in an unforgiving bun. She gave Mags a vacant stare, grey eyes reminiscent of deserted graveyards, or the bottom of a well. “You know me, Mags. Routine and order are what keep the demons at bay.”

“How awful that even the demons can’t stomach your presence. ” There was no other way around it: the woman gave Mags the creeps, and Mags had won her games by strangling three people to death with her bare hands. “Look, I know Annie’s too wily to be killed off by the likes of you, so don’t waste any more of my time on small talk. Show me to her!”

Mags trailed Librae through the heavily tapestried home. Though all the doors were firmly shut, a line of bright light peeked underneath every single one. “Are there other people living here?” Mags asked.

“My babies don’t like the dark. Now quiet. Annie’s in here.” Librae opened a door into a quaint little room, the centerpiece of which was a lace canopy bed, every wall lined floor-to-ceiling with porcelain dolls.

A thousand glass eyes stared into Mag’s soul. She’d never seen so many miniature bonnets in her life. _For Finnick and Annie_ , she reminded herself.

“I’ve been collecting my babies for years,” Librae explained. “They’re famous all over Panem. Why, I remember back in my prime there was more than one Capitolite who requested I bring a few of them along to our private meetings.” She gestured to the bed. “Here’s Annie.”

“Annie,” Mags called. She stepped inside. “It’s me.”

Annie’s face lay planted into a mountain of baby pink pillows, her sea of crimson curls clashing terribly and quivering like ripples on a pond. She lifted her head at Mags’ voice and blinked twice. “Mags?” she warbled.

The bed sighed as Mags sank down. She tucked a few strands of Annie’s loose hair behind her ears, brandished a handkerchief and dabbed at her moist, brown eyes. “Dear Annie. You’re like a beautiful sea oyster, that nice little dollop of cocktail sauce just waiting to be licked clean off. Can I touch your hair? Let me just touch your hair for a minute. There. Isn’t that relaxing? Do you mind if I weave in a little french braid? Let me braid your hair while Librae fixes us a nice warm cup of tea.”

“I don’t have any tea.”

“Coffee, then.”

“No coffee.”

“Juice? Milk? Lemonade?”

“I don’t have any of those.”

Mags pursed her lips. “Well how about just a nice, cold glass of water?”

“I cut off the water main to my house years ago, Mags. Everyone knows that.”

“Then what in Poseidon's name are you drinking?”

Librae took another sip. “I’m drinking what I’m drinking. Let’s leave it at that.” She turned around and started down the hall. “You have five minutes before I release the hounds.”

Annie fiddled with her necklace. “Let’s get this done quickly. I don’t need another set of Rufus’ teeth marks in my ankles.”

“You know why I’m here, Annie.”

“Yes.” Her eyebrows formed a tight ‘v.” “And if you’re only here trying to fix things for Finnick, forget it. He can be his own man and settle his own arguments.”

“Come now, Annie, you know me. I want to see _both_ of you happy. Now, I may not know the first thing about relationships –”

“You mean _long term_ relationships.”

“Let’s keep the rumors about my private life where they belong. I’m here to talk about _you_.” She dug into her pocket. “Look here: I’ve brought you a piece of rope to help calm you down, keep you focused.”

“Please, Mags. Tying and untying knots?” Annie tossed it aside. “That crap never works.”

“Really? Finnick swears by it.”

“And that’s why he’s still crazier than I am!”

“Enough of this rabbit trailing.” Mags divided Annie’s hair and begin the arduous task of pleating. “Like I said before, I may not be a guru when it comes to relationships, but I know why you’re upset. I know you hate the idea of getting rid of your old boat. Not that it isn’t a disgusting, moldering relic that should have been burnt to cinders years ago, but I can understand how you could have become attached.” She flashed her signature smile, the one which melted the young, virile hearts of District Four and was becoming increasingly toothless by the year. “A lot of good memories on that yacht, I bet. And I bet Finnick was a little insensitive when he pushed for the new boat, wasn’t he?”

Annie shrugged. “You know how Finnick is when he gets an idea into his head.”

“Like a squirrel with the last nut in the world?” Mags laughed. “That man can be tenacious. But have you ever stopped and asked yourself just why Finnick wants a new boat?”

“Isn’t it obvious? He’s tired of our old boat, he’s tired of –” She bit her lip. “And why wouldn’t he be? He’s always at the Capitol, always surrounded by youth and beauty. Why shouldn’t he get bored of his old, worn out toys?”

Mags shook her head. “Annie, Annie, Annie. You’re reading too much into this. I don’t for an instant think it’s like that at all. Think about it: the man has no control over his destiny. No control over what his next move will be. All he wants is to do something for himself – and for you.”

Annie looked away.

“When’s Finnick going back to the Capitol?” Mags asked.

Annie put her face into her hands. “A week.”

“Well, there it is.” She reached down for the discarded bit of rope and used it to tie off Annie’s braid. “What the two of you need is some quality time together, to mend all those little misunderstandings that have torn you up at the seams. Talk to each other. Spend every moment you can together, and make them count.”

“But the house and garden…there’s so much to take care of before Finnick leaves, and I can’t –”

“Hush, now. Don’t you worry about a thing. You know my thumb’s greener than a Capitolite on a catamaran. We’ll all pitch in and take care of the cleaning and the weeding. You just focus on your man.”

“Thank you, Mags.” Annie stood. “I hear barking. We should go. And there’s someone I need to find…”

 

* * *

 

Ron Stafford was notorious around District Four as an aficionado of hate. “It’s my defining emotion,” he would tell anyone, and proceed to enumerate the many things which had incurred his disgust – instant coffee, small talk, rainy weather, sunny weather, overcooked fish, the smell of seagulls, the Hunger Games – often ending his impressive list with, “and your ugly mug, which really should get out of my face before my fist makes it even uglier.”

It was solid fact that Ron Stafford had the capacity to hate just about anything. And Finnick Odair was no exception.

“You awake, Finnick?” He rapped twice on the closed door.

Finnick’s voice came back angry and muffled. “Awake, clothesless, and pouncing on the first thing that walks through that door.”

“Go ahead and try it. I’ll have you for lunch, and ‘Cilda will have your leftovers for dinner.” He debated walking away and returning to the haven of his kitchen, but recalled the plight of his delicate collectibles neatly stowed away in Annie’s mansion, and cracked open the door.

_Really?_

Finnick certainly hadn’t been lying about his first two threats. “Why are you stone naked, Odair?” Was the boy allergic to decency?

“I have sensitive skin, everyone knows that! Do you really want me breaking out in hives at a time like this?” Finnick’s blonde head dove under a pillow. “Why are you even here, Ron? I don’t like you. You don’t like me. Can’t you just send Mags in?”

“Nope. She went on to Librae’s place to have a little chat with your honey.”

Finnick surfaced from under the pillow with a frown. “Why does Annie keep going to that psycho for advice? Did you know she owns like ten thousand dolls?”

“The less I know about Librae, the better I sleep at night.” The bed gave a perilous creak as Ron sat down. Big, brown eyes peered at a slightly rumpled version of Panem’s most fabulous sex icon in decades, closely examining every inch of the flawless, golden-hued skin.

 _Yep_. There was no mistaking it. _Definitely_ _hate him_. He hated the sun-kissed hair, the delicate cheekbones. He hated the floral perfumes infused into every pore, the cloying stench of decadence. He hated the way Finnick came back reeking of the Capitol, looking every inch like Ron did in his prime, down to the glittering, facile smile. “Tell me, Finnick. How long before you leave for the Capitol?”

“Go away, Stafford.”

“How long?”

Finnick paused. “One week.”

He hated Finnick with the same scorching passion with which he had hated himself, all those years ago.

Ron scratched his head, a burgeoning smirk on his face. “You know, shave off a few decades, and I wasn’t so different from yourself.”

“Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.” Finnick ran a twitching eye down Ron’s bald head and distinct paunch. “And slightly offensive.”

“I don’t mean that I ever had your chiseled looks or raw sex appeal. But I had other qualities, a kind of down home charm, if you will. And the Capitol ate it up like my famous almond jello and fresh fruit salad.”

“Nobody likes your almond jello, Ron.”

Ron grit his teeth. He lived his life like a man perpetually on the brink of death, eating what he wanted, drinking what he wanted, and if anyone got in his face with something he didn’t like, he reacted how he wanted, invariably with a punch to the kidney’s. It didn’t keep Ron the most popular victor of District Four, but it was a system that worked.

But as he curled his fist for an organ-crushing strike, it occurred to him that there were times which called for restraint, and given Finnick’s current romantic troubles (and Finnick’s current stark naked, spread eagle position) he was willing to make allowances.

Ron averted his eyes. “The point is this,” he said with a sigh. “I’ve been where you’ve been. I know how hard it is to piece together a life from whatever scraps the Capitol leaves you. But you know what? In time, after enough years, you’ll grow soft and wrinkled, shrivel up like a sun-dried prune. You’ll lose every ounce of those good looks, and the Capitol’s interest to boot. Patience and perseverance, that’s what it takes to become a true Victor. I mean, just look at me and ‘Cilda.”

“Are you serious? Are you trying to set you and Muscilda up as some kind of example for me and Annie?”

“We’ve been together longer than you’ve been alive.”

“You also try to kill each other every other year!”

“But we never do.” He grinned. “And you wanna know why? Because we won’t let them –” he hiked a thumb over his shoulder, to the ever-hovering shadow of the Capitol – “get between us. Look, I get it. You want a new boat. You want something new, something shiny, something to take the attention off of how old and tired and used up you’re feeling. But both of us know this really isn’t about a boat, so just remember what I told you: patience and perseverance.”

“Patience, huh?” Finnick sat up and scrubbed at his face. To Ron, he looked young, unblemished and precise, with an unnatural construction, as if he’d been assembled in a factory.

But his eyes gave him away. “I don’t know if I can make it through another month, let alone years.” For a moment Ron felt the hatred ebb. A new sensation took hold, a quiet, disconcerting empathy. Ron gulped down emotion as Finnick spoke again:

“What am I supposed to do till I get as ugly and fat as you?” he sobbed.

Was the man contractually obligated to ruin everything? Ron cracked a knuckle. “I could speed up the process for you, if you’d like. I’m sure you'd get a lot less attention if you’re nose wasn’t so straight. Or even there at all.” But he relented at Finnick’s pathetic display. “What you need to do,” he said with an awkward pat on Finnick’s shoulder, “is cherish every second you get to spend with Annie, while the time is still yours.”

“How? I go back in one week. We barely have any time left.”

Ron sighed. “Let me and ‘Cilda help out. You know how good I am in the kitchen. I’ll fix all your meals for the week, drop them off at your place, and you can use the extra time to spend with Annie before they haul you back to the Capitol to implant a few more fake dimples.”

Finnick frowned. “My dimples are real.”

Ron ruffled his hair. “Sure they are, son. Sure they are.” He cleared his throat. “Now, wrap a sheet around yourself and go find your lady.”

 

 

* * *

 

Three pairs of eyes peered out from Mags’ bay window.

“How long has Annie been sitting on the pier?”

“Just a few minutes.”

A fourth pair joined them. “And Finnick should be joining her any minute,” Ron said. He clapped an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “And there he is.”

Muscilda looked up into her husband’s face. “So you fixed it?”

“They’re walking towards each other, aren’t they?”

Indeed they were. Finnick and Annie edged together like timid mice, closer and closer until they stood in the middle of the pier, an arm’s breadth apart.

“Their mouths are moving,” Librae said. “What are they saying?”

“What, you don’t read lips?” Ron asked.

“Not human ones.”

“Quiet, both of you!” Mags said. “Look what’s happening!”

The pair broke out into soundless laughter. Then they flung towards each other, falling into each other's outstretched arms as Librae, Mags, Muscilda, and Ron exchanged self-satisfied smirks.

Muscilda popped a bottle. “I was saving the good stuff for this year’s bloodbath, but what the hell!” She passed around flutes of bubbling pink liquid.

Mags raised her glass. “A toast! To our dear friends!”

“And free storage space!”

“And undisturbed romantic escapades!”

“And an empty, soundproof basement!”

“And a place for me to lay my head at night!”

Mags quirked an eyebrow at Ron. “What’s wrong with the mansion you share with Muscilda?”

“I don’t always trust her sleeping beside me.”

“What?” Muscilda shrugged, downed her flute, and threw her glass onto the tile floor where it smashed into a sea of murderous looking shards. “I’ve got an evil temper and a hair trigger.”

Ron hugged her about the shoulders with a grin. “And I wouldn’t have her any other way.”

 

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

 

Seagulls whirled above, white-capped waves crashing below. Finnick and Annie left no spaces between them as they swung their feet over the water, Finnick’s toes precisely manicured, and Annie’s left pinky toe as absent as ever.

Finnick felt it added to her overall charm.

“Are they still watching us?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re watching us. Maybe they’re worried it’s only a temporary fix.” Finnick grinned. “Get ready. I’m going in for the slow-mo smooch.”

Second by second their faces slowly reached towards each other. The backdrop of a setting sun cast brilliant oranges and reds around the dark frame of their silhouette. A wave exploded against the pier just as their lips met, a cascade of sparkling droplets raining over their heated kiss.

Annie combed her hands through his hair. “Mmmm.” She licked her lips as they parted. “Well. _That_ should put their fears to rest.”

“There’s a few more where that came from, if it doesn’t.” He tugged lightly on her pleat. “By the way, your hair looks fantastic like that. You should get it braided more often.”

“Thanks. Mags did it when she was trying to _console_ me.” She gave a laughing snort, then rubbed her hands together with a look of devilish glee. “So. What’d you get Ron to do for us poor, woe-begotten lovers?”

“He and ‘Cilda are cooking for us all week.”

“Nice.”

“I bet I could get grocery shopping thrown into the bargain if I subjected Ron to another dose of my patented sob-face.”

“Who can resist a crying and naked Finnick Odair? I know I can’t.”

“And what about you? Did you pry anything good out of Mags?”

“Oh yeah. She promised to do our gardening and house cleaning. And Librae, ever the sweetheart, gave me three porcelain dolls out of her own collection.”

Finnick cocked his head. “Incinerator?”

“I don’t know. They’ve kind of grown on me.”

Finnick held her close. Annie’s hair tickled his bare chest as he breathed her in. He knew from experience that the feel of her steady weight, the scent of salt and seaweed clinging to her hair, would create a memory vivid and lasting enough to see him through his next hellish stint at the Capitol. “Those people will do anything to keep us together,” he murmured.

“I know. I can’t figure out why…”

“Whatever their reason, we should ‘fight’ more often.”

Annie smiled. “We really should.”

 


End file.
